


It's the edge of the world and all of western civilization

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [19]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aging, Discussion of old sports injuries, F/M, Graphic surfing injuries, Half of this fic is just me missing good tacos, LA traffic is its own warning, Long-Term Relationship(s), Old Friends, Olds - Freeform, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Luc’s in LA for a couple of days for some kind of ESPN documentary. He’s never particularly loved Los Angeles, but it’s early December and when he books his flights he leaves more free time in his visit that normally would.  In LA he can Christmas shop for Jacks without having to be sneaky about it. And it’s December, and the winter waves off the coast of Half Moon Bay mean Crash is in California this time of the year.





	It's the edge of the world and all of western civilization

**Author's Note:**

> There is a long scene involving marijuana use in this fic, in case that is of concern to you. There is also very short, blink and you miss it mention of Luc reminiscing about his previous issues with food, but not enough that I thought it warranted a tag on its own. Mostly this is a very sappy fic about two old friends.

Luc’s in LA for a couple of days for some kind of ESPN documentary. He’s never particularly loved Los Angeles, but it’s early December and when he books his flights he leaves more free time in his visit that normally would. In LA he can Christmas shop for Jacks without having to be sneaky about it. And it’s December, and the winter waves off the coast of Half Moon Bay mean Crash is in California this time of the year. It’s not like he won’t see her in a few weeks for the holidays, but he’s already convinced her to come down from Santa Cruz to see him after he finishes with ESPN today. 

“You want me to drive from Santa Cruz to LA?” Crash had asked, unamused, when he called. “Are you insane? That drive is hell.” 

“Not drive. Fly. Or take the train. Come on, bro, I’ve spent two and a half days with these schmarmy dicks.” Luc wheedles. “Sergei says there’s a taco truck in the city with the best carnitas he’s ever eaten.”

There is a long reluctant silence. 

“Taccccooooooooos, braaaaaahhhhhh.”

“Fine.” 

They finish filming around 6:30. Luc has a text from Crash that says _I’m still stuck in traffic you fucking asshole_ which means she’s right on time from the airport.

There’s an extended period of “wrapping up” that involves a lot of standing around and bullshitting that Luc is beginning to find tiresome. Luc’s happy to help with the documentary, and everyone’s been extremely easy to work with, but he’s ready for the experience to be over. He’s been daydreaming about sharing a beer on the balcony of his hotel suite with Crash since he got here. And he’s even more eager to just _go home_. 

“So,” John says, “meet at the restaurant or drive over together?” 

All heads turn to look at Luc, the guest of honor, expectantly. 

“Ummm,” he says. “Which restaurant?” 

“Violoneux?” John says. “I got us reservations months ago when we were planning this. It was on the schedule.” 

Oh. Luc is being an asshole. Again.  
“Oh, duh.” Luc smiles. “I was getting days mixed up. Um....”

Hailey raises her eyebrows. “Did you have other plans?” 

“Well...” Luc pauses. “Sort of...” 

That makes John’s eyebrows raise too, and Mark’s grin turn into something like a leer. “Got some LA strange picked out from the evening, Chantal?” 

Luc rolls his eyes; he’s been 100% done with Mark since day one, “Crash. We were going to get dinner together.” He’s suddenly very glad he overheard Mark mention he has a flight to catch as soon as they end here, and that the man obviously won’t be joining them for dinner. 

John stares at him. “Teixeira? She should join us! Absolutely. Honestly, that would be perfect. Wonderful to get an opportunity to talk with her again, get her perspective on some of the things we talked about with the documentary, I’ll call Violoneux now, make sure they’ve got space for us.” 

Luc groans. Crash is going to kill him. 

Their waitress is, apparently, old enough to be serving them alcohol in the United States, so over 19, but Luc can’t imagine she’s old enough to buy it for herself. She’s all legs. Legs and bright red hair. And she’s been flirting with Luc _hard_ ever since they walked in the door. 

She’s very pretty, and it’s very _flattering_ to know he can still turn heads, but he’s not actually interested. She’s Bells’ age, and Luc can’t think of her as anything but a child. 

She’s got her hand resting lightly on Luc’s shoulder while she talks over the course choices with everyone when Crash arrives. Crash is wearing a flowy black beach cover-up that vaguely passes as a dress. Luc can’t imagine, even if she’d brought something to match the rest of the tone of the restaurant, she’d have changed into it. There’s a round of hand-shaking. John pulls her chair out for her, coming round the table to greet her. Luc kisses her cheek and Crash takes her seat next to him, hand on his leg. 

“Are you ready to order, or should I give you some time to take a look at the menu?” the waitress asks. 

Luc pushes a wine glass towards Crash. “I already ordered you some wine, they have that alvarinho you liked from the winery we went to last summer.” 

“I’ll just give you some time to decide,” the waitress says in a funny sort of voice and walks off. 

Crash looks at him. “Did I miss something?” 

John coughs. 

“I’m _old as balls_ ,” Luc grins at her, “and that girl is still trying to get in my pants. Now she probably thinks my wife just showed up.” A mistake no one in Canada would make, of course. It’s refreshing, to be in a city where his private life isn't transcending beyond common knowledge to common folklore. 

Crash grins. “Oh _really?_ Should I act bitter and jealous when she comes back? Or maybe just exasperated like I’ve taken too many Xanax to get mad about your philandering ways anymore?”

Luc grins back, “You could always act like a drunk old cougar who wouldn’t mind her joining us.” 

Crash chokes on he sip of wine. “Fuck no, god what if she actually took us up on it, what a nightmare. Ok, I’m going to the restroom to wash LAX off my hands before we eat, if she comes back before I’m done, I want the shrimp thing for the first course. You guys were choosing the four course option, not seven or ten, right?” 

John shrugs and says, “We were just deciding when you arrived,” and Hailey offers, “When we made the budget, we decided on seven, but we can do four or ten if someone has a preference, the restaurant hasn’t already made plans about it.” 

“I’d rather four,” Luc says, “the others have a foie gras course, which I don’t eat.” 

“Oh, thank you, god.” Hailey laughs in relief. “I hate the thought of it too.” 

Luc orders the soup for himself, when the waitress, _Krista_ , comes back, and the shrimp for Crash when she asks, “Did your wife decide what she wants?” 

“She’s not my wife,” Luc adds, out of 30 years habit of “not my girlfriend” that morphed into “not my mistress” and “not our surrogate” around the time they started having children. 

“Of course.” Krista nods, tone stuck somewhere between Customer Service Voice and Interest. 

“She’s the mother of his children and the non-monogamous quasi-platonic _third_ in their famously ambiguously polyamorous triad.” John grins over his aperitif, because he’s the asshole that wrote an article about the “Chantal Jackson Teixeira Dynasty and What It Means For Sports” five years ago. Luc rolls his eyes. Hailey’s the asshole that runs the “C-J-T family Olympic Medal Count” ticker on the ESPN website during Olympic years. She coughs into her wine but doesn’t say anything. 

Krista flushes red from her ears and cheeks, down her throat. It’s pretty fucking charming. “Oh,” she says, and then “Oh, she’s Beatriz Teixeira. You’re Luc Chantal! Oh!” 

“Yes,” Luc sighs. “Since we’re leaning into the awkwardness now, can I take your picture to send to my husband to chirp him about how I’m still turning the heads of pretty, long-legged redheads even in my retirement?” 

Her blush gets impossibly redder. “Yes,” she says, grinning, “of course. Can I get a selfie with you to show my roommate?” 

****

“I’m mad at you by the way, bro.” Crash says as they take the elevator up to Luc’s hotel room. 

Luc lets his hand rest on her shoulder. “Oh? What’d I do?” 

“Promised me carnitas and beer.”

“Oh, poor bebe.” Luc laughs, pulling her up against him. “Instead you had to make do with truffles and too much expensive wine.” 

“Pretentious fuckery.” She grins into the loop of his arm. “The cliched excessiveness of the self indulgent bourgeoisie.” 

Luc hums as he steps out of the elevator into their room. There had been too much wine. But not really too much food. Four courses, but small portions. The sort of place that, if he’d eaten there when he was still playing, well -- he wouldn’t have ever chosen to eat there. Hockey players didn’t eat at places, even fancy places, that did tiny portions. But if he had (and he had unfortunately wound up at a few places like that during his career), he would have had to stop on the way back to his hotel, pick up a rotisserie chicken from a grocery store, peel off all the skin, and eat it, just so he didn’t wake up starving in the middle of the night. On a bad day he might have skipped the thighs, neatly pulled off the lean white breast meat and put the rest in the trash. On a good stretch, he wouldn’t have cared, would have eaten the whole thing down to the bones. 

Neither of them are burning calories like that anymore, but they’re still burning them. Crash probably spent all day surfing before she took her flight into LA. Luc certainly hadn’t missed his morning in the hotel’s gym before going to the ESPN offices. 

“I could eat some tacos, still,” he offers. 

Crash kicks her shoes off. “You could go get us some. I need a shower.” 

“Alright. Be back in a bit.” 

The taco place Sergei had mentioned is on the other side of the city, but it’s not like taco trucks are scarce on the ground, and it’s hard to find tacos in California that aren’t better than tacos almost anywhere else. 

He calls Jacks as he walks down the street and Jacks laughs when he answers, ‘You’re both _ridiculous_ , Crash is on Skype right now, talking to Mavs. Sofia’s over visiting.” 

“It’s weird, being here without them, without you.” 

“It’s good for you,” Jacks responds, “you guys don’t get much time to hang out, just yourselves, without the kids.” 

That’s true. Luc hadn’t even thought of it before Jacks mentioned it, but it’s true. Luc and Jacks spend plenty of time together; marriage requires _upkeep_ , plenty of people are happy to remind Luc, and Luc and Jacks make the effort to keep things connected. It’s hard, with schedules, but easier these days now that most of the kids are grown and out of the house. They go on dates, used to trade weekends watching the kids with Sergei and Alex, Buddy and Yasha, so that everyone got time with just their spouse. With Crash... Crash’s own schedule added an exponential layer of complicatedness towards arranging time together and any time she had was time she was making for their kids. It would have felt selfish to the extreme to spend a weekend alone in a hotel with her, or alone with just her and Jacks, when those were days she wouldn’t get to spend with the kids. It’s a strange and startling thought he’d never paid attention to -- that she’s one of his best friends in the world, and he hasn’t seen her in _decades_ just for herself, just for the sake of hanging out with his bro. 

“Are you really wandering the streets of LA looking for tacos?” Jacks changes the subject. 

“Sure,” Luc grins. 

“Please don’t get mugged.” 

“I’m not going to get mugged.” 

“That’s not very reassuring, last time you got mugged you were halfway through the mugging process before you realized the guy wasn’t just asking for an autograph.” 

Luc laughs out loud. “I had forgotten about that. What was that guy’s name? Jeremy? Jeremiah? Jerome? Jeffery?”

“Gerald. He was from Australia. You signed his t-shirt. It was _embarrassing_ , Luc.” 

“I think he still follows me on Instagram. Anyway, I’m in a nice neighborhood.” 

“You’re standing in front of a marijuana dispensary.”

“Oh,” Luc looks over his shoulder for the first time, “but it’s like a fancy one. Boutique. Hey, is there a word for a weed sommelier? The sommelier at dinner tonight was irritating as fuck.” 

Jacks sighs. “I have no idea, but I’m sure the people at the fancy boutique weed place could tell you. The dogs are scratching at the door, I”m going to let them in. Text me when you’re back at the hotel so I know you didn’t meet another Gerald. Love you,” 

When Luc gets back to the hotel room, Crash’s hair is wet and she’s changed into an old sweatshirt and a pair of board shorts. Luc bought enough tacos that they put them in a brown cardboard to-go box, not the little paper boats, and he sets them down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, tells her, “Half are carnitas, half are cabeza.” 

Crash opens the box, and Luc texts Jacks to let him know he successfully didn’t get mugged, despite previous history. Texts Bells, who’s in Cuba for her study abroad semester, to brag that he successfully mangled his way through ordering in Spanish and only had to revert to using French words with an -o on the end and a Spanish accent twice (She texts back _increible_ ). Responds to a question from Mavs about where the nose balm is for the dogs, and posts a pic of the tacos to the general family groupchat. 

He and Crash take the food out to the balcony. It’s not _cold_... it’s LA, it’s impossible for it to be really cold, but the chill of the December evening makes Crash shiver, and Luc turns on the gas lantern heaters outside. Crash puts her feet on his lap, licks carnitas juice off her fingers. 

“It’s not too bad,” Luc says into the silence, “I mean, it doesn’t smell like ocean air, and I kind of miss that hideous old carpet in bedroom of the surfhouse, but...”. 

Crash digs her heel into his thigh and sighs. “LA is definitely not Santa Cruz,” she agrees, “but California always makes everyone nostalgic, in general.” She plays with her phone, sifting through music probably, and gets the speakers playing. 

Luc laughs. “Are you playing _the Chili Peppers_? That’s old even for us. My dad went to a concert of theirs, in the late 90s.” 

She grins. “You seem like you’re in a mood.” 

The beef cheek tacos are good. Not ‘best tacos in the world’ good, but pretty fucking good. Luc licks lime juice off his fingers, then reaches into the pocket of his suit trousers, tosses the sleek little plastic bag onto Crash’s lap. 

“Blue Ribbon... Centennial ... Purple Kush....” She reads the delicate type of the label of the package of the two tightly rolled little joints he’d bought. “You bought _weed_!?”

Luc takes a sip of his water bottle. “Weed sounds a little underwhelming for what I paid for that. Also, I had to wait through a fifteen minute lecture about terroir to buy those, from a guy wearing a monocle.” 

Crash laughs so hard her breath gets gaspy, tears leaking down the side of her face. “I haven’t smoked in _years_ , wow, you really are feeling nostalgic.” 

“I was sort of thinking,” Luc says, “you know... smoke up and you sit on my face until my jaw doesn’t work.” He grins at her. “Just like old times?” 

Crash rolls her eyes, “if it was really like old times, you’d be bitching about your lung capacity. Which, by the way, was never as good as mine.” She takes a sniff of the bag. 

“Well you know...” Luc strikes a match from the matchbook he’d taken from the dispensary, lights the joint, shakes the match out, breathes out the first puff of smoke when he says, “I’m probably too old for that to matter much anymore. And we’ll call it a draw.” 

Crash slides into his lap. “It’s not a draw, I won every single time we ever tested that.” 

“Wow, sounds like you’re suggesting a rematch.” 

“I’m not.” She plucks the joint from his hand, takes a deep inhale, little cherry at the end burning in the night, and leans in close as she exhales. Luc leans into the kiss, swallows the smoke down as he licks into her mouth. 

When they’ve smoked it down to the roach and Luc’s lips are sore from kissing, shirt rumpled and coming loose from its stays, his fingers pushed up the legs of Crash’s shorts, thumb rubbing over the damp seam of the cotton, Luc grinds the roach out under the toe of his shoe and picks Crash up, carries her through the living room and into the bedroom while she pulls at the buttons on his shirt and he fumbles, one handed, at the button of her shorts. 

“Nope,” she says, pushing him back down when he tries to roll on top of her, and climbs up his chest.

By the time Luc’s jaw admits defeat, Crash’s legs are trembling and twitching around his ears, and she’s so wet the collar of his dress shirt is soaked. “Enough,” she gasps and Luc drags her down his chest, grinds his dick against her wet pussy. She raises herself up, slides down on his dick and the soft wet heat brings his need to come suddenly to the forefront. He grabs hold of her hips, plants his feet on the mattress, thrusts up at the same time he pulls her down, and she plants the palms of her hands on his chest for leverage. 

Time trickles, slow and fizzy, when they’re done. Luc’s lost in the sensation of his thumb running over Crash’s scars, the silvery shine of them against the rest of her golden tanned skin. The THC and endorphins are leaving him in a bewildering state where nothing in his body currently aches, and the absence of nagging discomfort is disorienting. 

“What are you thinking about?” Crash asks and it takes him a while to realize she was asking him, that she expects an answer. 

“Krista the waitress.” 

“Asshole,” she laughs, no heat to the swat she directs at his thigh. 

“Not like _that_. I was thinking... I was thinking how wild it is that she... how is it possible that we’ve known each other longer than she’s existed? That doesn’t seem possible. We can’t really be old enough for that to be possible.” 

“Oh, you _asshole_ ,” she breathes, “I can’t possibly be that old.” There’s a long pause. “If Hank and Manon hadn’t fallen apart, we might be grandparents right now.” 

“Fuck,” Luc sighs, and rolls off to lay on his back. 

“I remember you, when you were 19.” Crash lays her hand on his solar plexus. “You had a baby face and a secret husband.” 

Luc wiggles his feet. “And all ten of my toes.” 

The giggle starts small, but soon she’s shaking with laughter, and Luc’s joining her, unable to stop, in a way he hasn’t felt since the last time he he was high, 20 years ago. 

When they’re finally able to calm down, Luc’s ribs hurts, his face aches from his smile, and Crash says, “I forgot you lost your stupid fucking pinky toe to frostbite.” 

Luc yawns. “Jacks doesn't let me forget. He’s still a little mad about the mountain, I think.” His hand strays down to Crash’s thigh. “Crash,” he starts, squeezes above her knee, just below the hollow of flesh, the chunk of missing quadriceps that’s long healed over but still absent and the rough scar that circles it, “I was mad at you, bro, so fucking mad at you about this.” 

“Chants....”

“I know it wasn’t your fault, wasn’t even the shark’s fault, but fuck I was mad at you for scaring us like that, for the kids being scared.” 

She makes a sound, rolls into his chest and Luc wraps his arms around her. “Sorry, bro, sorry,” he murmurs. He sinks his fingers into her hair and says, “I was proud of you too, so fucking proud of what a badass you are.” 

“I don’t look much like I did when I was twenty,” Crash says finally. 

“Yeah, you do,” because she does, really. She never really stopped surfing and so she never really stopped looking like a surfer. Sure, her hair is streaked with gray, there are deep sun-worn crows feet and laugh lines on her face, sun damage on her shoulders, but those are all superficial. The stretch marks from her pregnancies have long faded, it’s been too many years, her breasts small, like they were when they were dumb twenty-somethings, the fullness she’d gained from her babies gone from there too, but the shape somehow changed a little. Luc runs his hand down her back, can feel the minute texture difference of the scars there, but those are _old_. He remembers them, when Teahupo’o had dragged her along its reef and she’d come running up the beach, young and laughing and wild, blood flowing down her back, shouting for someone to get limes. Bent over the railing of the hotel patio, gripping the posts with tight white knuckles, determined not to scream, while Disko rubbed salt and lime juice into the deep scratches so that it would scar, so that Teahupo’o’s mark would stick. Luc feels like he knows every inch of her, was there for every change, every horror, every joy. Just like Crash and Jacks know the chronology, the stratigraphic history of ever surgical scar on his knee, his wrist, his hip, knows the history of his bones, his tendons, his teeth.

“How is it,” Crash whispers against his chest, echoing his thoughts, “that you could know me so long? Who would have thought we would still have each other, after so many years?” 

Luc sniffs back the tears stinging his eyes. “Hey, bro, wanna shop for Jacks’ Christmas present tomorrow before my flight?”

“For sure,” she says as she pulls the blanket over them, “someone's got to keep you from buying him another watch.”

**Author's Note:**

> The scene at Teahupo'o is inspired by a real life surfing video on the WSL instagram. Big wave surfers really are a special level of badass. 
> 
> Many thanks to dangercupcake for fixing my commas and spelling. 
> 
> come find me a superstitionhockey on tumblr


End file.
